


Stein um Stein

by zoldnoveny



Category: Berserk (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst, Golden Age (Berserk), Guts’ man pain, M/M, Porn With Plot, Relationship Study, past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 19:49:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21884212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoldnoveny/pseuds/zoldnoveny
Summary: If things were different, Guts thinks he would be feeling pretty content right now. He knows this moment could hold lots of easy, unspectacular happiness, but it just feels empty now. He has all these feelings for Griffith swimming around, but nowhere to put them. Well - nowhere permanent./In which Griffith has a house.
Relationships: Griffith/Guts (Berserk)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 134





	Stein um Stein

**Author's Note:**

> yes I named this fic after a Rammstein song.  
> my brain is leaking out of my ears.  
> thanks for reading!!

The King has given Griffith a house.

Well. It probably wasn’t the King himself - one of the various underlings of his court, instead - but the house was gifted nonetheless. As a member of the peerage, Griffith has been elevated above living in a tent dug into frosted ground. Mercenary shit. He’s a knight now, so he gets to live in the town circumscribing the Castle. The Hawks are permitted to fill the gaps in between, but many choose not to. It leaves a sour taste in Guts’ mouth, so he gets it. Others delight at the physical proof that they’re nobility, and are happy to enjoy the privilege of four walls and a roof over their heads. Such a thing is so foreign it takes a second to really grasp; to sink teeth into. How many years has Guts spent sleeping in the dirt and being fine with it? He’s never wanted more than that - and he would say the reason for that is because he’s not like Griffith, but he can’t be sure Griffith really wants that, either. Who knows what Griffith wants? His dream, or whatever, but the delicacies of that have always blurred into the background.

Anyway, he has a house. Tall, made of pale brick, supported by wooden beams, with more room than one man could ever fill. But Griffith has always made a habit of absorbing more space than he occupies; his presence like a vacuum. Guts can picture him drifting around his huge house like a phantom: alone but not lonely. 

Thinking about Griffith makes his head churn, so he tries not to. It rarely works.

The house they gave Guts is much less impressive, but still, he’s put off by it. Unlike Griffith, he only takes up as much space as he’s given, and feels the building stretch and wax around him as soon as he steps foot inside. It goes against his very nature, to live like this. It’s so… wasteful. What is he even supposed to do with all of it? So he leaves. 

Griffith brings him to his after one particularly brutal campaign, after Guts tells him he’ll make camp with his raiders, like he’s always done. He’s heavy with caked-in gore, feeling the weight of his exhaustion weave into his searing joints. Griffith looks as him as if he’s endlessly entertaining, with his head cocked to the side, and says, “Why don’t you come with me and sleep in a real bed?”

Which is the sort of thing Guts would normally decline, but. But. Instead, he finds himself in Griffith’s washroom, back against cold stone while Griffith wipes the blood from his face. Watching his brow pinch in concentration and his bottom lip glisten, Guts fails miserably to quell the pounding of his heartbeat. Fucking Griffith. His hands come back red each time he goes to wet the rag in a pail of water, fine-boned and slender, knuckles knotted with calluses and scars. There’s dirt beneath his fingernails, which are otherwise neat, unlike Guts’, which he bites to keep from growing out. 

Guts can feel the shallow cascade of Griffith’s hot breath against his face, considering how close he is. To keep from watching his mouth, he watches the Behelit swing from his neck. Somehow this is worse. 

“There you are.” Griffith says, leaning back to smile. He reaches out to tousle Guts’ hair, which is so familiar Guts wants to reprimand him for it. 

Griffith gathers himself to stand, tossing his heap of hair over his neck and coiling it around his hand to lay across his shoulder. After wiping his palms with the rag he used to clean Guts, he extends a hand for him to take. Guts does not accept, but stands and adjusts his gaze to look down at him. Shadows swallow his face, but his eyes smolder cobalt in the faint starlight from a nearby window. Again, he smiles, corners of those eyes crinkling at the corners, cheeks dimpling. 

“M’tired.” Guts announces. 

Griffith shows him the room in which he will sleep, its bed made up primly against the wall. Besides, there is a dresser, desk, and sitting chair. Guts internally cringes at the extravagance, but cannot begrudge the allure of sleeping on a mattress. He knows his aching muscles with be grateful, come morning. 

Griffith wishes him goodnight, and whisks away with a clip of his boots’ heels against the floor.

  
  


* * *

The first time Guts kissed Griffith, he had been drunk. Drunk enough for the details to smear around the edges, so he doesn’t really know if it was him who initiated things. Probably not. In the dead, swollen middle of winter, when nighttime stretches longer than day, there’s not much to keep warm with. So everyone drank, passing a bottle around a fire until one or the other started to kick up some heat. Illuminated by flames, Griffith bathed in gilded gleam, like all light was drawn to him alone while the others sat in the dark. Being around a guy like Griffith all the time, you have to learn to bask in his afterglow. 

Casca once told Guts that Griffith never did shit like sit around the fire until Guts showed up, which Guts has never understood. 

But that night, they wandered away from the flame, after the others had retreated to their respective tents to sleep. Trotting drunkenly through the white-dusted foothills, Guts let himself laugh and sink into the warmth of Griffith’s presence. Up on the crest of a shallow, rocky cliff, which overlooked an iced-over creak, Guts watched each of Griffith’s exhales fog before his lips. He counted them, then found himself subconsciously matching his own breathing accordingly. And they stood there, breathing together, air cold enough to shock with every rasp. Then one of them, both of them, tilted to each other, and the clouds of Griffith’s breath disappeared into Guts’ mouth. Being drunk, Guts doesn’t remember much of it, except the warm, wet curl of Griffith’s tongue, and his faint, shuddering gasps. How odd, to hear someone as otherworldly as Griffith do such a thing. To hear his breath peak, then snap. Guts coiled him into an embrace, tucked him to his chest, and stole the air from his lungs. Or tried to. Tried to absorb as much of him as possible, to keep beneath his skin for when he wasn’t around.

After that, snagging kisses became commonplace. It was strange. Nothing else changed, but when it was dark enough to bleed into the black sky, they touched. A residual, burning discomfort began to ebb, doing so sober. Guts did not like being touched, and even with Griffith, there was sometimes a barbed edge to the contact. So he learned to lean into it, let it sink. But it never really went away, just got easier to forget. 

After being reckless during battle, Griffith would find him and draw him into his arms, seal their mouths and tell him he was foolish. Then smile against his lips. Guts didn’t know what to think about it all, but remembered a promise he made - so long ago - to let Griffith do whatever he wanted with him if he won their duel. _Make me your soldier or fag-boy or whatever_ . And here they are, and Guts likes it. Should he feel bad; wrong?  
  
In Griffith’s house, they orbit one another. Guts doesn’t spend much time there, anyways, just finds himself drifting back there to sleep. They spend most days fighting, still, which is exactly how he wants it. But at night, he’ll roam the halls and see candlelight flickering from Griffith’s room, peak his head inside and watch the other man where he sits at his desk, thumbing through parchment and scribbling so rapidly the feather of his quill dances. There’s so much shit Griffith busies himself with, he’s dug himself a trench in it. Guts is beyond understanding him. 

Being so close to Griffith, staying in the same house, makes Guts feel like something else should happen. Some new development. What exactly that entails, Guts is unsure of. Is their relationship linear enough that things can change so expectedly? The first night, Guts honestly thought Griffith was going to have him sleep in his bed. He would have said yes. But instead, Griffith gave him his own room. When he thinks about it, he embarasses himself - which is something he previously thought himself above. Getting flustered over his own thoughts. He’s kissed Griffith, felt him up, sure, but in a bed more happens. Guts chokes on acrid memories, but still wants to.

Sometimes, he wants Griffith so badly he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

The worst part is when Griffith catches him watching. It only evens out because Guts catches him, too, which sends a blazing jolt through him. The weight of Griffith’s stare and expectations has always been hefty, but now it heaves on a different precipice.

* * *

It’s night, and Guts plods down the hall to Griffith’s room, knowing he’ll find him awake. He is, sitting at his desk with a candle burning, reading a thick-spined book. Guts stares at his back, the nape of his neck, revealed because his hair is drawn back and tied with a ribbon. What is so fucking thrilling about his bare neck? Guts doesn’t know, but it makes his fingertips tingle. Griffith looks over his shoulder, yellow light dancing in his eyes. 

“Hello,” He greets, “What is it?”

Guts scuffs his heel against the floor, folding his arms where he’s leaned up against the doorframe. He picks himself up, then walks over to Griffith’s desk to stop before it and lay a hand across the back of his chair.

Griffith lifts his chin upward to watch him, perfectly coiled ringlets of hair falling to frame his face, long eyelashes casting symmetrical shadows down his cheeks. “Guts?”

Guts tilts Griffith’s chair back, him with it, setting it back on its hindlegs, before sweeping down to kiss him. Griffith makes a surprised noise in the back of his throat, a hum more than anything else, before he reaches up to caress Guts’ face. His jaw loosens and his mouth opens, a rush of breath from his nose. They seperate moments after with a wet noise, and Griffith tucks his lower lip beneath his tongue and teeth, while Guts lets the chair fall back into place. Then, he sinks down to kneel before Griffith on one knee, who shifts his gaze downward to watch. His hand returns to Guts’ face, then turns over so he can skim the back of his knuckles over Guts’ cheek. 

Guts finds himself pressing his face into one of Griffith’s thighs, hiding in his lap. Griffith’s fingers come to cradle the back of his neck, before running through the scruffy hair leading up his nape. “What is it?” He repeats, voice softer. 

Something inside Guts clenches. “Nothin’.”

Griffith huffs a laugh, edges of his nails scraping against Guts’ scalp. Gently, he turns Guts’ head to its side, so he can look down at him and make eye contact. He touches the ridge of Guts’ brow, then trails his fingertip down the peak of his cheekbone. “Forgive me if I have trouble believing that.”

The thing is, Guts doesn’t know. What it is. It’s nothing, really, except that being around Griffith makes him feel like he’s being eaten alive. Lately, it’s becoming almost unbearable. When did it get like this? Is it the fucking house? Maybe - probably. Being in the same house but different rooms. It’s like a taunt. 

Still, Guts doesn’t say anything back. In the silence, he lifts his head, and rises on his haunches enough to kiss Griffith again. Closing his eyes, he shifts his body weight upward and softly touches his mouth to his, before curving their lips together. Probes past the line of Griffith’s teeth, swallows his breath. He runs his palms up the muscled curves of Griffith’s legs, while Griffith winds his arms around Guts’ neck. Then, after tugging on Guts’ lower lip, Griffith pulls back, cheeks satisfyingly rosy, and cocks an eyebrow.

“Well?”

Guts reaches up and cups Griffith’s chin. Then he stands, moving his hand to rest on the crown of his head. And shrugs.

* * *

After Guts fights one hundred men for Casca and wins, he does not go to Griffith’s house. The past few weeks have blurred into a whirlwind, since the royal hunt when Griffith was shot and survived, to Guts’ order to kill count Julius, to watching Griffith speak to Charlotte by the fountain. Casca, fainting and falling off the edge of a cliff, and Guts diving after her. Later, her telling him about Griffith sleeping with that man. Each time Guts’ thoughts glint back to Griffith, as they are wont to do, they are soured. All he can hear is Griffith preaching on about _his equal_ , and all he can feel is the weight of his kiss.

He stomps that down, and returns to the familiarity of making camp outside - after his wounds have been treated. Beneath a tree at the crest of a hill, he watches the night sky twinkle. Casca marches up through the grass and comes to talk to him, and he isn’t displeased to see her. He lets her unravel his bandages and smear his wounds with some powdered shit she calls medicine. Speaking with her is more natural than doing so with Griffith, but in a different way. He isn’t sure he can understand it enough to explain it, even to himself. When Casca isn’t pissed off at him, she’s on an accessible level. Like Griffith, Guts finds her somewhere above him, but she’s easier to reach. So he tells her - that this isn’t it. Not for him, not after what he heard Griffith say, not when his tide of feelings threatens to capsize him. He just can’t anymore.

When they find Griffith wandering around, Guts feels a stone sink into his stomach. He pushes Casca into him, and watches Griffith’s eyes flicker from her to him to her again. Griffith and Casca feels right, like they’re the way it’s supposed to go if the story is perfect. Guts has never been sure where to fit himself into that narrative, so he doesn’t really try. Just slinks around Griffith’s house and steals the moments of his time he trails behind. 

“Will you stay here, tonight?” Griffith asks him, later. He glances up from behind the curtain of his curled fringe, looking as innocently curious as a child.

Guts heaves the shoulder that isn’t supporting his sword into a shrug. He wants to go with Griffith, but also feels a little sickened by him. An indecipherable, churning mass begins to accumulate in his chest. Looking down at Griffith, he curses the bastard for being so fucking beautiful. He really is. Like something beyond this world. 

After sparing a glance over his shoulder, Griffith steps in closer. Rests a hand over Guts’ chest, just over his heart, and tips his head back, so his hair cascades over his shoulders in spiralling waves. “I wish you’d come with me,” he says, sweet, before leaning in to kiss Guts’ jaw. He presses his face into his neck, molding his body into his, and Guts has no choice but to hold him by the waist.

“I was so worried.” Griffith confesses. Guts wonders if he’s only brave enough to admit such weakness because his face is hidden. “For both of you.”

Guts runs his hand up where he knows Griffith’s spine bows, beneath his armor. Curses himself, because he knows he’ll go with him. At least for now - he’ll go with him.

They trudge around the camp, over the grass and back into the streets, which look ominous at night. Griffith’s pale hair shimmers like a beacon, and as always, he absorbs all the moonlight for himself and leaves Guts in the dark. It feels like a reflection of what he told Charlotte by the fountain.

At home - and Guts wants to berate himself for thinking of it as _home_ \- Griffith shuts the door and pushes Guts up against it. His armor clinks as he crowds around him, sighing through his teeth and falling against him. His mouth is cold, but soft as ever. Behind it, his tongue is a shock of heat. Guts sucks it past the seam of his own lips, feeling Griffith curl his fingers into his biceps. Griffith shudders even closer, somehow, and Guts gathers him in his arms, secure around his slender back. 

They twist so Griffith can lead him through the small foyer, parting only to make the trek up the stairs. Here, Griffith presses him to the banister and starts to draw him in again, only for Guts to stop him with his hands over his chest.

“What’s gotten into you?” He asks, out of breath.

Griffith has a crazed look in his eye, suddenly, wide as dinner plates with his pupils narrowed into pinpricks. His mouth is swollen and red like budding rose petals, which matches the hue of his flushed cheeks. He swallows hard enough for his Adam’s Apple to bob, like he’s gulping for air. “I was worried.” He says, repeating what he told Guts earlier. “You’re too reckless.” 

Guts pushes the hair from Griffith’s face, runs his fingers through the thick curls, and coils it around his knuckles. With a tug, Griffith’s head is jerked backward, exposing the smooth, pale length of his neck. If Griffith talks anymore - says that shit again - Guts will get pissed. Fuck, he already is pissed. The sight of him, flushed and teetering towards _wrecked_ , is enough to make Guts’ skin crawl. He bends down to sink his teeth into the side of his throat, feeling the skin stretch under his tongue, his pulse fluttering. He bites a trail to where Griffith’s collar protrudes, fine linen peaking past the border of his amor. Griffith’s arms wind around Guts’ shoulders, pulling him closer, and Guts starts to suck a magnificent bruise into the corded muscle of his neck.

“Not where people can see.” Griffith protests, ragged around the edges.

Guts unwinds the hair from his fist and parts it over Griffith’s shoulder. Looking into his eyes, he finds the pupils have swelled and dilated, his mouth hanging open to reveal neat rows of white teeth. Guts cups Griffith’s face, runs his thumb over his glinting bottom lip, and feels static bubble in his stomach.

They manage to trip the rest of the way up the steps, to Griffith’s chambers. Guts does not spare a thought to the implications of it all, too busy with undoing the various meticulous clasps of Griffith’s armor. The sheets of metal fall from his chest, revealing his shirtsleeves, and clatter to the ground. Wrestling Guts from his cloak and shirt is much easier, and all it takes is Griffith standing on his tip-toes to draw them over his head. After, Griffith begins to march Guts backward, steering him blindly to the bed, where he shoves him to sit down, hard. The mattress thumps beneath his weight, and he’s forced to crane his head to look at Griffith from below. His face swims in a sea of flouncing white curls, eyes burning violent cerulean. Guts watches reverently as Griffith settles one knee between his spread legs, before he lifts his hands to settle his palms over the curve of his upper thighs. Griffith pulls his shirtsleeves off, drops them behind himself to reveal bare skin and planes of fine muscle. His broad shoulders taper into a neat, small waist, and the sharp cut of his hipbones lead enticingly into his trousers. His trousers, snug around his groin with a noticeable bulge. Guts swallows thickly at that, trails his hands up Griffith’s sturdy legs, feels the heat of his skin even through fabric.

“Guts.” Griffith says, a complete sentence. Nothing else lingers on the end of that statement - he says Guts’ name only for the sake of saying it.

Guts tugs Griffith closer - close enough for him tumble into his lap, smile glinting behind whorls of hair. He perches on one of Guts’ knees, then leans all of his weight into his chest so they collapse onto the mattress. Guts settles his palms over the fine curve of his lower back, where his spine dips and bows, and feels the muscles twitch under his touch. Griffith’s face looms above his as he props himself up on his elbows, looking down with a quiet fire blazing behind his eyelashes. They kiss again, and Griffith curls his tongue around Guts’ like a promise, tilting his head further and further to the side until their mouths lock, then slide, then clash with teeth. Guts bites down on Griffith’s lower lip, drags it from his gums, and listens to the faint whistle of him exhaling unevenly. His nose wedges into the skin beneath Guts’ ear, full, damp lips against his neck, which he trails gently up and down. Guts can’t suppress his shiver, even at such a light touch.

Griffith takes one of his hands, his own dwarfed in comparison, and leads it to the waist of his trousers, where they hug the small of his back. Pulling back, he gives Guts another look at the artistic juxtaposition of his blue eyes and red mouth, which both bunch and pinch as he smiles briefly. Guts, feeling faintly dazed, works his fingers just slightly beneath Griffith’s trousers, the skin there heated and soft. He gulps. Then places his other hand to mirror the first, sliding both under the fabric, cupping Griffith’s ass completely. Griffith’s expression does not change, but his mouth parts gently with a barely audible noise. His heartbeat racing in his ears, Guts squeezes, met with the slight resistance of strong muscle. After Griffith returns his face to the crook of Guts’ neck, Guts begins to knead his flesh with more purpose, feeling it mold beneath his palms. 

Griffith spreads his legs just enough for Guts to notice, the swell of his arousal pressed to Guts’ thigh, mouthing wetly at the sensitive skin beneath his ear - and an electric thrill races up the notches of his spine. A harsh exhale sends fine hairs spinning from Griffith’s head. Guts can sense the life thrumming inside of him now, can practically detect the rhythm of his heartbeat, and realizes this is the closest he’s ever felt to feeling like Griffith is.... Well. Normal. Human.

But he’s so human it burns through him, through layers of skin and sinew and bone, down the core.

Guts gets Griffith’s trousers off the rest of the way and Griffith does the work of kicking them off his ankles. Unable to see much of the man with him laying on top of him, Guts explores the newly exposed skin with his hands. How is someone as battle-worn as him so soft? He should be scarred - and he is - but each trace of old wounds are fine and pale like delicately woven webs; beautiful. Guts curls his fingers into the dip of his inner thigh, pulls his touch up and up until he brushes against something that makes Griffith suck air through his teeth.

Then Griffith gets a hand wedged between their bodies and his fingers start working at the ties of Guts’ codpiece. He fumbles, a bit, but loosens them enough to get his hand inside. Guts shivers as fingertips brush over sensitive skin through the thatch of hair there. Taking Griffith by the waist, he tosses him gently to the mattress, and rises to his knees. From below, Griffith watches silently, the weight of his gaze closing in. Guts finishes undoing the drawstrings of his trousers, and shuffles the clothing down his thighs practically.

Griffith’s eyes drop without shame. Guts’ ears burn, although he feels foolish for being embarrassed now. Then, Griffith’s well-kissed mouth curves into a clever smile, eyelashes fluttering, and he spreads his thighs enticingly.

“You little fuckin’ minx.” Guts growls, diving down to meet him.

Griffith’s laugh rings through the room, cheerful and light. Guts suddenly is washed beneath a tide of convoluted emotion, a confusing jumble of uncontainable joy and grim resignation.

Hands card through Guts’ hair, massaging his scalp lightly, before moving to slide down his neck and frame his shoulders. “I want you to do whatever you want to me.” Griffith tells him, words strong and sure enough to be practiced. Guts wonders if they are.

Such nebulous directions somehow manage to make Guts feel more restricted than before. _Whatever he wants?_ Where to even begin? All of his knowledge of such things remains hidden in a locked vault within himself; one he dares not peer into. What if he hurts him? Is there a way to do this without it hurting? Suddenly, Griffith’s touch grows staticky-hot, like lightning is brewing under his fingertips. It contrasts the swirling void of cold in Guts’ chest.

“What’s wrong?” Griffith now sounds concerned.

Guts shakes his head. “Sorry.” 

Tilting his chin up, Griffith seals their mouths together sweetly, almost chastely. He smiles again, after pulling back. “I’m very glad you’re alright.” He lifts a hand to frame Guts’ face. The memory of him doing so, the first time, so long ago, flickers. “Please, I want to feel you.” His hand falls away to trail downward, where he grasps Guts surely in his palm.

Guts cannot help but surge forward as a prickly burst of heat erupts in his stomach. The catch of Griffith’s dry skin threatens to irritate, but the contact in itself is too good to sting. Being touched by Griffith in this way makes all of Guts’ weight lift and swim, like he’s been filled with hot air. Then he looks at Griffith’s smiling face and the sensation doubles tenfold.

He’s never wanted anyone or anything this much.

Still: he knows he has to leave.

Not quite yet, though.

Griffith lifts his hand and spits into it, before reaching back down to take Guts once more. The sound is obscene enough for Guts’ ears to heat again, as Griffith pulls him into a lolling rhythm, tugging with his fingers closed around the head, catching with each upstroke.

Guts drops his head into Griffith’s hair, his hips subconsciously rolling into his hand, feeling warmth bloom in the wake of being touched. He’s done this to himself enough times, but it’s different like this. 

“Do you want me, Guts?” Griffith asks lowly, in his ear.

Guts doesn’t have the capacity to lie right now. “Yes.” 

“Do something about it, then.” He takes Guts’ earlobe between his teeth. “There’s oil in that drawer.” Guts feels him nodding in the direction of the table neighboring his bed, his hand falling back.

Guts goes to find it, digging through the organized contents and leaving them a mess in his search. Finally, after locating a small, inconspicuous vial, he knows he’s located it. Uncapping the cork, he peers through the small opening, trying to make out the appearance of its contents. Tinged by the green glass in which it is contained, its true color is indiscernible. It smells like not much of anything, either.

“That’s it.” Griffith confirms, voice edged with amusement. 

“What do I do with it?” Guts asks, peering over at him with one eyebrow raised.

Griffith’s expression softens. “It’s lubricant. To make everything…” he appears to struggle with how to articulate his thoughts, “go in smoothly.”

Realization settles in. Ah… will this make it… feel better, then?

Griffith seems to realize Guts has absolutely no idea of how to proceed, and takes pity. “Pour some on your fingers, then put them inside of me.”

Guts’ stomach roils at those words. 

“Will… will it hurt you?” He can’t help but ask, crawling forward on his knees slowly.

A stretch of moonlight from the window is ensnared in Griffith’s eyes, turning them from blue to cool silver. Still, the expression there is gentle. “No. Well, perhaps a bit. Your hands are very large. Among other things.” Somehow, this fact seems to please Griffith, who smirks impishly. “But that’s quite alright.”

“You’ve done this before.” Guts declares. He’s known that since Casca told him about that old man, but it finally really sinks in now.

“Does that upset you?”

Guts thinks. “Nah.” It’s the truth. He recognizes that he has the capacity to be jealous, but truth is, he knows how Griffith feels about him. No matter who he’s been with, he’s always considered Guts… Guts doesn’t know. Important?

“Have you? With anyone?” Griffith prods gently.

Guts sinks down on his haunches beside Griffith, and mindlessly reaches down to brush an errant curl from his cheek, tucking it behind his ear. He was pissed off at him not long ago, but now it’s like all that has dissipated. Griffith has utterly consumed him in this moment.

“I don’t know.” Guts tells him honestly.

Propping himself up on his elbows, Griffith looks at him seriously. He says nothing, but the question in his gaze propels Guts forward.

“When I was a kid - I - there was… something. I didn’t… I didn’t want to.” The words threaten to catch in his throat, solidifying until they’re tough to cough out. His pulse jerks and jolts until it’s racing. 

Griffith wets his lips, then purses them. He almost looks angry. “I see.” He exhales. “... I don’t want to push you, if it makes you uncomfortable…”

“No.” Guts scoots closer, lays a hand over the back of Griffith’s neck, caressing his nape through layers of hair. “This ain’t like that. I - I want to… A lot.”

Griffith smiles again, any tension eased from his face. “Good.”

“You just gotta… help me out a bit, yeah?” Then, his eye catches on something. The Behelit, resting between the curve of Griffith’s pectorals. He narrows his eyes, “but ya’ gotta take that damn thing off first… don’t want it starin’ at me.”

Griffith laughs, and reaches to pull the cord over his head. “Fair enough.” He sets the Behelit aside, and then takes the vial from Guts. He uncorks it, waiting for Guts to offer his fingers before dousing them. They gleam once he’s done, and Guts stares down at them while his heart thuds.

Meanwhile, Griffith is shifting. When Guts glances back over at him, he’s on his elbows and knees, back arched winsomely, looking over his shoulder. His legs are spread enough for Guts to clearly see where he opens. 

Guts feels like he’s just swallowed a rock. 

He tries in vain to gulp it down. Crawling forward, he places his unslicked hand at the small of Griffith’s back to steady him. 

He earns a tiny noise in response, a soft hum. “Just one at first.” Griffith commands, letting his knees fall further apart, his back bowing even deeper in the process. 

With a breath, Guts runs a finger between the split of his ass, coating it with oil, watching him twitch only slightly enough to notice. His fingertip catches in the pucker of Griffith’s entrance, and Griffith inhales sharply. Guts is emboldened by this, and touches with more purpose, bearing down to rub slow circles, relaxing the tight coil. He dares to press slightly inside, met with tense resistance, not even to the first knuckle. Inside of him is nothing but hot pressure, unlike anything Guts has ever felt before. The oil helps the slide in, makes it slick enough to push through the tension. When he’s finally down the the second knuckle, the rest of the way goes much easier. Experimentally, he rotates the finger until the back of his hand is entirely flush to the rosy swell of Griffith’s backside. Certainly, it’s a captivating image. 

After curling his remaining fingers into his palm to make a fist, Guts nudges forward. He does so without first pulling out, so it’s less of a thrust and more of a push. He hears Griffith’s breath catch, so he does it again. Again, again, until it’s no longer enough and he withdraws to press entirely back inside. There is no longer any resistance, his finger easily disappearing back into Griffith’s body - like he’s hungry for it. The tightness bears down on him, rolling and clenching each time he’s entirely entrenched. His rhythm builds languidly as he takes his time to feel Griffith out, so lost in the pattern that he pays no mind to anything else - pressing in, curling up, twisting around, pulling out. Over, and over. Griffith hasn’t said anything, but the way he arches and pushes his body into it tells Guts he is enjoying himself.

He removes his finger entirely and watches the way Griffith’s opening almost flutters in his wake, a bead of oil tracing down the flushed curve of his inner thigh. It’s so - much. Guts swallows a mouthful of saliva.

Hurriedly, he pours more oil on his fingers and strokes two over Griffith’s entrance.

“Finally,” Griffith quips, glancing over his shoulder. “Taking your time, were you?”

“Smartass.” Guts jokingly snipes back, slapping Griffith’s ass lightly with his unoccupied hand. Griffith jolts forward and _gasps_ , and something seizes inside of Guts. His face splits into a grin. “...You sick bastard. You _liked_ that.”

“Be quiet.” Griffith drops his head between his arms, but Guts can still see the red tips of his ears. 

Guts can’t help but laugh, joying in seeing Griffith so worked up. He wishes he could take this moment of lightness and bottle it up for later.

He slips his fingers in, and a low rumbling noise emerges from Griffith’s chest as he works them deeper. It’s more difficult this time, and Guts feels the resistance closing around him fiercely, but Griffith’s small noises spur him on. He curls his fingers and crooks them upward, following the natural slide, and Griffith makes a loud noise. 

Guts squeezes his ass, hooks a thumb along the inside of one cheek and pulls it open. As a result, he sinks in deeper than before, until his last knuckle is flush with the rim, Griffith clenching around him. Keeping his hand in place, he drives back into that deep space over and over, twisting with each withdraw, until Griffith’s breath is unmistakably ragged. Expiremently, he scissors his fingers apart, and the flesh gives - tension easing away as Griffith melts into total relaxation in his pleasure.

“That’s enough,” he grits out, words full of air.

“Is it?” Guts spreads his fingers again. Now that he’s getting used to this, he’s feeling pretty confident. He wouldn’t mind working Griffith over with just his hand, it’s enjoyable enough to rouse reactions from him. Still, he’s painfully hard, and his dick twitches at the implication of Griffith’s words. 

Griffith twists from his grasp, rocking forward to escape his fingers. Before Guts has a chance to react, Griffith has taken him by the shoulders and firmly shoved him back into the bed, pinning him against the pillows. He climbs astride Guts’ thighs, his own legs forced to spread wide to accommodate his bulk. Griffith’s cock bobs, flushed pink beneath a shock of pale hair, and Guts can’t help but stare. So far, everything he’s really seen has been from behind. This is… very good. 

Griffith, with his hair a white shroud around him, obscuring much of his face, reaches behind himself to take Guts’ dick. “You seem to have forgotten who here is in charge.” He smirks, with that fucking red-bitten mouth. 

He strokes Guts like he had earlier, before rising slightly to guide him to his entrance. It’s wet from the oil, and stretched enough for Guts to feel the heat from within. He grips Griffith’s knees, unable to do anything but watch reverently. Griffith locks eyes with him, slowly lowering his hips so the head is caught in the ring of muscle. Guts is hyperaware of every ridge and fold of skin, as the blunt, round tip struggles to pierce through the taut opening. Griffith settles in further, gripping Guts to steady him as he forces it inside. He tilts his head to the side, lips falling open and eyes closing, his cheeks bright pink and brow pinched. He pushes a long stream of air from his mouth, which trembles almost as much as his thighs. 

“Ya’ good?” Guts asks, concerned. He feels like he’s about to pop a blood vessel, because - _fuck_ \- it feels so good, and he’s barely in. He itches to grab Griffith by the hips and yank him the rest of the way down; to feel all of that delicious friction and heat around him. But he restrains himself.

“Mm - yes.” Griffith answers, lowering himself more. He takes his hand away, and balances it alongside the other on Guts’ chest. He drives himself down, taking much of it, and coughs out something that may be a moan. 

Trying to soothe him, Guts slides his hands up and down his legs. His own toes curl into the sheets, every muscle in his body straining, blood roaring in his ears. He can feel Griffith clench and unclench as he relaxes to take more in, and it’s almost too much to handle. 

Griffith drops to his elbows, each framing Guts’ head, and his spine curves so their chests are flush. This angle makes everything much tighter, and Guts has to squeeze his eyes shut and clench his teeth. He grips Griffith’s narrow waist, and helps him do the work by lifting his hips.

Griffith makes an unholy sound directly into his ear: a ragged, shaky moan - quiet enough to be lost, were he still further away. 

“That’s it.” Guts tells him, his voice coming out strained. 

“Fuck.” Griffith swears. Guts realizes he’s never heard him say that word before, and likes that he says it now. “I - you’re much larger than what - what I expected.”

Of course, Guts cannot help but feel a surge of mannish pride at that. Heh. 

Guts tucks his smile into the side of Griffith’s throat. He plants his feet on the mattress so he can drive in the rest of the way, knowing Griffith can - and wants to - handle it. Sure enough, he’s rewarded with a happy grunt.

Griffith pulls his head up so he can look down at Guts, showing that he, too, is smiling. He bites his lower lip while his cheeks dimple, angelic and obscene. His hips rotate, roll, angle downward and snap up, drag forward, before he slides up and settles back down.

It’s Guts’ turn to swear, prickling heat shivering up his spine. With each movement, Griffith somehow tightens. It feels ungodly. Griffith starts to set a pace, lifting himself by mere centimeters only to lower down further than he was before. Inside him is wet and hot, a vice-like grip. Guts’ hand could never emulate such an experience; he doubts anything could. In this moment, he knows he could do this with Griffith forever. He knows it would be impossible to ever tire of it. Even know, as he has him, he wants him more than ever.

It quickens. Griffith sits upright again, hands covering Guts’, where they balance on his hips. He uses this grip to steady himself as he hurriedly moves, going from pulsing grinds to dragging up-and-down. There’s no real pattern, but it’s amazing. Guts can tell he probably looks pretty dumb, because he feels his blush throbbing and his jaw is clenched tight enough to almost snap his teeth. 

Then, he closes a fist around Griffith’s dick. It jerks in his grasp, and Griffith throws his head back and groans. It’s not like touching himself, it’s kinda weird, but Guts likes it. It would be strange if he didn’t, considering. He begins to stroke, evenly enough for it not to sync with the mismatched rhythm Griffith sets. Griffith shivers, shoulders jerking as he tucks his chin to his chest, which blooms pink.

His movements seem almost subconscious, like he isn’t thinking, but can’t bring himself to stop. Guts delves further into that idea - that Griffith is beyond thought, right now, and finds that he quite likes it. Would like to crank it up a few notches. So, he takes Griffith by the waist and quickly spins him over, his back down. He blinks up at Guts, looking like he’s on the cusp of saying something, before he’s interrupted by Guts sliding back home. Any diction thusly dies on his tongue.

Guts hooks his hands in the insides of his knees, pulling his legs up. Griffith bends easily, eagerly opening his legs for Guts to fall into him. No longer deterred by the angle from before, Guts can effortlessly slam into him. The headboard bangs. 

One of Griffith’s hands snake down to jerk himself off. The other tangles in his hair, then skates down his chest, then reaches for Guts’ hand to help prop up his leg.

Guts quickly loses himself in it. His thrusts quicken as he chases after the simmering, electric warmth in his belly. He can feel how close he is to release in the tightness in his thighs, the prickling in his groin. Griffith, too, looks just about on that edge - his mouth hanging open as he pants, eyes shut and lashes fluttering, chest heaving. He pumps his hand rapidly, precum dripping onto his abdomen. Guts wants to immortalize this moment and look at him like this forever; he’s perfect. Ineffably beautiful. Only for Guts.

Guts will gladly admit to being his. Hell, he never resisted it that much in the first place. Perhaps he always knew his fate.

He thinks that’s the real reason why he has to go. 

He climaxes with a groan, holding Griffith still while he pulls out to come across his stomach. Griffith keeps stroking himself while he watches through a curtain of long eyelashes, then follows soon after. 

Guts collapses beside him, face down. He gets a few moments to breathe - muffled through the pillows - before Griffith starts trailing his fingertips up his spine. Guts twitches, then turns his head to peer over at him. He’s on his side, leaning on an elbow, smiling like he’s just won a great prize. 

“How lucky am I, for you to belong to me?” He asks.

Guts grunts, then turns his face back into the pillows. “Don’t get too full of yourself.”

Griffith hums amusedly, rubbing Guts’ back. “I don’t know… I’d rather be full of _something else_.”

Oh, that was _bad_. Guts grabs a pillow to hurl in Griffith’s direction, who snickers - the bastard. Then, he sits up and pins Griffith back down, holding him by his wrists. Griffith continues to laugh even as Guts bows down to kiss him; first on the mouth, then the jaw, then his neck. One hand leaves one wrist to trace the length of Griffith’s torso, mapping every swell of muscle and jut of bone. He ends by sliding around to cup his behind.

“Ready again so soon?” Griffith asks, like it’s endlessly entertaining.

“Yeah.” Guts replies plainly, speaking into his throat. He bites down lightly, catching some skin between his teeth. “I can’t get enough of you. I wanna fuck you forever.”

Griffith hums. “Alright.”

* * *

It starts getting cold again about a week later. The days are fine - refreshing, really, but the nights are frigid enough to warrant rooms being warmed with fire. Guts has slept in Griffith’s bed for most of them, who curls around him like he’s starved for warmth. In the mornings, he tells Guts he runs hot enough to forego a fire.

Now, Guts stands out on the stone balcony, away from any comfortable warmth within the house. Above him looms an impartial sky, speckled with stars. He realizes then that he does most of his thinking at night. No interruptions, he supposes. Except for Griffith, which must be why he’s outside, now.

He can see himself staying with Griffith forever. Loyal and subservient, the trusted underling who wields his sword in his honor and fights for his dream - then goes home with him and fucks him to sleep. Honestly, it seems like a good life. But the fantasy snags on what he heard Griffith tell Charlotte at the fountain. He can’t live with being with Griffith and not being his equal, not being his friend. It’s not that he thinks Griffith doesn’t want him there, he knows better… just that he wants to have more to offer to him. To him, to the world. If he stays with the Hawks, he’ll never be more than what he is now. How can he expect Griffith to respect him as such? Hell, what matters more is that _he_ can’t respect himself. Even with the way things are going now, the only person he can truly rely on is himself. He’s lived long and hard enough to know that for certain. If all he ever amounts to is being Griffith’s shadow, that’s hardly a worthy life.

He has to go.

Still, he doesn’t want to.

It’s more than Griffith. Much more. It’s everyone - everything he’s come to know in these past years. Camaraderie, kinship, family. Purpose, drive, even if fleeting. The trust and honor his raiders give him is irreplaceable. The sense of belonging is nothing he’s ever known before. 

Regardless, he doesn’t have a choice. So he resigns himself, and at least tries to enjoy what he has left. 

It’s snowing. Delicate flurries glitter in the inky black, dancing languidly to the ground, which is just slightly frosted. Guts remembers the first time he kissed Griffith, when it was also winter. He remembers trudging through icy sludge with Casca after both of their horses were nicked by arrows. He remembers snowball fights with Rickert. He remembers crowding in a tavern with his friends, finally free from the cold. 

Something inside him splits, and a chasm cracks open.

“What are you doing out here?” Griffith’s voice startles him. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Guts nods. Griffith comes to stand at his side, “me neither.” His hair is tied back unevenly with a leather cord.

They stand in silence for a long stretch of time, watching the snow fall. If things were different, Guts thinks he would be feeling pretty content right now. He knows this moment could hold lots of easy, unspectacular happiness, but it just feels empty now. He has all these feelings for Griffith swimming around, but nowhere to put them. Well - nowhere permanent.

Suddenly, Griffith reaches over and takes Guts’ hands in both of his. Guts glances down and realizes his own are cracked and red from the cold - just how long has he been standing out here? Griffith’s are as smooth as ever, curling over Guts’ knuckles. Slender and long where Guts’ are broad and thickset. Both are scarred from years of battle.

Griffith draws Guts’ hands to his mouth to breathe hot air into his palms, warming them. Guts can’t help but blush, although he’s experienced far deeper intimacies with the man. It’s just so… tender. He isn’t sure how to react, so he just watches. Griffith continues to breathe on him, and slowly the sensation begins to bloom back into his fingers. Then, Griffith presses a kiss to the center of each of his palms, opening his eyes to lock his gaze with Guts’. He kisses the meat of his thumb, then the tendons in his wrist, then a vein that runs up the length of his forearm. He turns to give the other arm the same treatment.

Guts’ heart clenches.

Griffith smiles. “Let’s go inside.”

* * *

The End.


End file.
